the odds in our favor
by failoutgirl
Summary: Sponsored by some of France's wealthiest benefactors, the event will be nationally televised as mandatory viewing for all citizens. The victor will be pardoned of all crimes against him or her, and will return home to live in luxury. There will be no exceptions.
1. début

[IT IS A REGULAR DAY IN SUBURBAN FRANCE, 1833*. TWO CHILDREN SIT IN THEIR LIVING ROOM, THE GENTLE HUM OF THEIR TELEVISION DEPICTING A CARTOON OF A CAT AND MOUSE RUNNING AFTER EACH OTHER SERVING AS BACKGROUND MUSIC TO THEIR PLAY TIME. THEIR MOTHER ENTERS THE ROOM AND SCOLDS THEM FOR LEAVING THE TELEVISION OPEN WHEN THEY HAVE THEIR TOYS TO AMUSE THEM. AS SHE REACHES OUT TO TURN THE TELEVISION OFF, THE FEED OF THE CARTOON FADES IN TO STATIC, AND IS INTERRUPTED WITH A FLASHING CLIP THAT DECLARES A GOVERNMENT ANNOUNCEMENT.

THE MOTHER, UNSURE WHAT TO DO, CALLS OUT FOR HER HUSBAND. THE FATHER COMES IN TO THE ROOM JUST AS INSPECTOR JAVERT, THE HEAD POLICE OF THE MONARCHY, APPEARS ON SCREEN. HE LOOKS SOLEMN, BUT THERE IS A WICKED GLEAM IN HIS EYES. THE INSPECTOR READS FROM A PIECE OF PAPER.]

 **INSPECTOR JAVERT** : Greetings of peace. In two weeks, we will be celebrating the anniversary of the unsuccessful June Rebellion. Thanks to inside sources, we were able to prevent the uprising before it could even begin. All that were involved in the revolution have been jailed accordingly; however, we do not believe that the time they are serving in prison is enough of a retribution for their conspiring against the monarchy.

In lieu of this, France's top scientists have conspired tirelessly over the past year to produce a suitable punishment: an arena, where everyone who participated in the plotting of the June Rebellion will engage in a fierce competition. The event will take place on the fifth of June, 1833 - for the next two weeks, the detainees; tributes, if you may; will undergo training, and will be presented to the public

Sponsored by some of France's wealthiest benefactors, the event will be nationally televised as mandatory viewing for all citizens. The victor will be pardoned of all crimes against him or her, and will return home to live in luxury.

There will be no exceptions.

[THE GOVERNMENT ANNOUNCEMENT FADES, AND THE CARTOON RETURNS. THE MOTHER IS INCONSOLABLE - SHE RUSHES OUT OF THE ROOM. THE FATHER IS FRANTIC AS WELL, BUT HE MAKES IT A POINT TO STOP IN FRONT OF HIS CHILDREN. THEY CLUTCH THEIR TOYS AND STARE UP AT HIM WITH WIDE EYES. THEY ARE TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND. THE FATHER KNOWS THIS. HE KNEELS TO THEIR LEVEL, NONETHELESS.]

 **FATHER** : It's okay, kids. It's okay. _Ton frère..._ ** He's going to come home - he's going to - he's going to win this, this whatever this is.

[THE FATHER STANDS ABRUPTLY, FOLLOWING HIS WIFE OUT OF THE ROOM. THE CHILDREN SHARE A LOOK. IF THEY KNOW ANYTHING, IT IS THAT THEY KNOW THAT SOMETHING IS WRONG. THE SCENE SHIFTS BACK TO THE TELEVISION. THE CAT CATCHES THE MOUSE. THE SCENE FADES.]

 **x**

 **disclaimer/etc.**

all characters belong to Victor Hugo unless stated otherwise. heavily inspired by the elements/borderline alternate-universe in that of Suzanne Collins' _The Hunger Games._ primarily e/é.

genres include romance, friendship, angst, hurt/comfort and fantasy.

rated T for language & themes.

the formatting for the intro won't reflect in the rest of the story, don't worry! :] i just wanted to be a little ~*extra*~ lmao.. enjoy!

* * *

* I'm all for historically accurate fics, but due to wanting to keep as close to the Rebellion as possible (an important plot line down in the story!), I was forced to compromise fact for fiction. For example: I am aware that the television is invented in 1927, roughly 94 years post when the story is set. Grant me this little margin of error, my amigos. We are in an alternate universe, after all.  
** _Ton frère_ \- Your brother.


	2. menteur, menteur

"Look, kid," the stylist heaves out a sigh, pleading with Enjolras with her beady eyes. "I'm just trying to do my job. Can you stop acting like it's _my_ fault you're here?"

Enjolras purses his lips even further, still refusing to uncross his arms from his chest. Slightly amused, he re-runs in his head the fact she'd called him _kid_ \- perhaps he is, in that moment, a bratty child. The stylist had been unable to get his measurements in lieu of his noncooperation; they'd been in the dressing room for what felt like hours.

"Aaron, isn't it?"

Enjolras juts his chin up, unable to conceal his annoyance. "Enjolras." he says automatically. He never gave out his first name lightly. Nonetheless, he was sure that it was already common knowledge - he had been the front-runner of the schoolboy rebellion, after all. Name plastered on newspapers; discussed on television shows. For a flash of a moment, Enjolras wonders if his parents have formally disowned him. Would they really let go of their only son, just like that?

"You really don't want to make this any harder for the both of us." the stylist tells him in a low voice. Her eyes flicker towards the door. Enjolras doesn't have to look to know what she's watching out for. The guards were standing by the single door in the room, both armed with instructions to shoot if Enjolras tried to run. _Again._

The past few days, his attempts were futile; he'd ended up badly bruised after being manhandled on several occasions. The last time he'd attempted to escape, Javert himself had warned him that if he tried one more time, the guards wouldn't hesitate to draw blood. Enjolras wonders if it's a more heroic death - a better fate - than the bloodbath he's about to be subjected to.

Disgruntled, Enjolras uncrosses his arms. The stylist shoots him a grateful smile as she pulls her measuring tape around his torso. When they're done, the stylist grasps Enjolras by the arm before the guards can lead him away. "I hope you win." she says quietly. Something digs itself in the pit of Enjolras' stomach; he knows that this soft-spoken girl who can't be more than a few years older than him means well, but he wants to tell her that he'd rather not - rather not have anything to win, rather not be where he was in the first place. But she looks so _hopeful._ He gives her a closed-lip smile. "My favorite color is red." he mumbles, and the stylist looks as if she's making a mental note of it as Enjolras is dragged away.

 **/**

Enjolras is twiddling with the cuffs of his coat when he walks up to them.

When they'd been arrested at the barricade, Javert had made sure that they would be jailed in separate facilities. _Can't have another revolution forming, can we?_ the man had taunted as he shoved Enjolras in to his cell. As vehemently as Enjolras had demanded to see them - _any_ of them - his pleads had fallen on deaf ears. For roughly a year, he had no idea how they were doing; which of them were still alive; whether they despised him or not - which makes his approach to the group one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. Grantaire is the one who acknowledges him.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he drawls. Enjolras notes that he's cleaned up nicely, but there's a couple of things that are distinctly Grantaire that no amount of dressing up can hide - the manic gleam in his eyes, the constant disarray of his hair. There's a bruise blossoming near his lower lip, poorly concealed with powder. Enjolras doesn't have to ask to know where it came from. "I see that you're _still_ trying to turn red in to a fashion trend. How many times must we tell you that it's not going to work?"

Enjolras smiles weakly. His stylist had granted him his simple pleasure, sending Enjolras in to the Opening Ceremony with a red coat. "Old habits die hard." Enjolras says - his voice sounds foreign to him, resounding in the silence of the Les Amis de l'ABC. They are all staring at him with unreadable expressions, and Enjolras knows they deserve an apology, but the words stick in his throat. "It suits you." Jehan offers delicately, and some of the glass breaks - the boys reach out to give each other one-armed hugs and pats on the back. When Enjolras holds Joly, he notes how the poor boy is shaking; Enjolras could only imagine how hellish jail could be for him with his hypochondriasis. He bites back the apology when Combeferre pulls Enjolras away from the group for a moment. "Enjolras. It's good to see you." Combeferre says formally. "Likewise, 'Ferre." Enjolras replies dryly. "Although I do wish it were under different circumstances."

Combeferre laughs at that. He has a blue coat over a white polo and a red tie - the colors of France, Enjolras observes with amusement. Combeferre was far more soft-spoken than the rest of the boys, but he had his own flair. "That's a given." Combeferre shoots back. "I would love to catch up with you, but - " his eyes shift to the sentinels surrounding the back stage of their venue before glancing back at Enjolras, contrite in the very least. "It's not the right time." Enjolras finishes, and Combeferre clasps his hand on Enjolras' shoulder as a gesture of support.

"One step at a time, my friend." Combeferre assures him just as the 'host' of the event steps in to the back stage. "Show time soon!" the host - an American man by the name of Caesar Flickerman - calls out to the tributes. He is dressed impeccably. The man grants each of the boys a look - they're the only tributes assembled together - and offers them a sympathetic smile. "I'll be seeing you on stage in a few moments." Caesar announces. From somewhere in the throng of the Les Amis, someone mumbles "over my dead body"; Caesar takes this in stride, his serene smile widening slightly. "A character. I like that." he says approvingly before ducking back on to the stage.

Enjolras knows very few details about what's about to happen. Like the rest, he had received only the bare bones of Javert's announcement. A twisted way to celebrate the anniversary of the rebellion's failure. What chills Enjolras, though, is the singularity of it all. _The victor will be pardoned._

Whatever arena they were going in to, Javert intended that only one of them would come out.

"That's our cue." Bossuet hisses from behind Enjolras - something Flickerman had said that Enjolras hadn't caught - and mostly by force of authority, Enjolras walks on stage with the rest of the Les Amis to the roar of the audience. He hears their jeers - "Serves you right!" "Is that where your education got you?" - and he has to close his eyes for a bit, drink it all in. It's been a while since he'd been out in the open, since he'd seen people that weren't wardens or fellow inmates - they weren't any kinder, though. And Enjolras feels, somewhere deep inside of him, that he deserves it.

Jehan is the one who weaves Enjolras through the stage. When Enjolras gathers the courage to open his eyes, he is blown away by who else he sees on stage - aside from the nine of them in the Les Amis, there's Marius Pontmercy; there's the two waitresses of the Café Musain, Matelote and Gibelote; there's Madame Houcheloup; for some reason, the crime gang Patron-Minette are present as well; and then his eyes land to a group of three huddled together, and whatever is left of Enjolras' heart aches. The Thénardier siblings cling to each other: Gavroche, Azelma and Éponine.

Both Gavroche and Azelma stare out in to the audience with expressions of amusement and disgust, and it takes a moment for Enjolras to realize that Éponine's gaze is trained elsewhere. He meets her eyes when he glances their way and he is caught off guard at her expression - she is glaring at him, equal parts furious and disbelieving, and he knows he's wronged the revolution but he has no idea how he's offended _her._ She doesn't look away as he stares straight back at her. Éponine Thénardier was the one who liked Marius; the girl who stuck around the Les Amis for Gavroche. She never made any pronouncements of supporting the rebellion, nor did she prevent Gavroche associating from them. Still - why was she so mad? Rather - why was she up with them, on stage, in the first place?

" _Bonsoir_ *, France!" Caesar booms. The audience calms enough to let him speak. "May I present to you - your tributes!"

Caesar makes a grand gesture towards the row of people on stage, and the crowd begins to rumble. Enjolras breaks away from looking at Éponine to stare in to the audience. As Caesar runs through the names of who will be participating in Javert's sick game, Enjolras makes it a point to glance at their reactions.

None of the Thénardiers, nor the staff of the Musain, look pleased. The Patron-Minette are almost taunting in the way their received the jests thrown their way. But their lout is upstaged by the acknowledgements of the Les Amis, something Enjolras has to wonder if they planned beforehand -

Caesar calls for Grantaire, signaling the drunkard to do a mock curtsy. Caesar announces Feuilly, who pulls out one of his fans from the folds of his coat. (Feuilly even throws the thing in to the crowd, and it's snatched right up.) Caesar mentions Bahorel, which makes the bristly boy throw a punch in the air. Boy after boy have a little stint that represents the schoolboy side of them that Enjolras had so often overlooked, and he thinks of how he took it for granted. How hell-bent he was on his cause that he'd been so close from taking their youth away from them. _It's not too late for that to happen,_ he thinks bitterly.

"And the last - but definitely not the least - Enjolras!"

Enjolras does not smile; nor does he curtsy, or produce anything from his pocket. Enjolras lets them jest and mock him, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He keeps his chin up and makes sure he's not looking at anyone in the audience in particular. Jail had coated him in a thicker veneer of calm than insurgency ever could. And with his composure - as the Les Amis had learned - Enjolras is damn near unstoppable.

* * *

* _Bonsoir_ \- Good evening.


	3. le calme avant la tempête

Javert holes them all up in what he calls the Training Center - tells them they have three days to learn how to live - and as much as Enjolras still despises the whole idea of the competition, he has to admit that the center is a thing to behold.

It's an enclosed room with different stations for learning various survival skills. Although Enjolras has never been tech-savvy, he's informed enough to that there was a technological boom in the last year that has produced a slew of never before seen machinery. He's able to disguise his bewilderment but the others are a little less discreet. "What the _fuck._ " Courfeyrac whispers in absolute astonishment, gingerly touching a gadget that looks like a camera. The thing roars to life, and what seems like an apparition - a ghost? - spews from the lens, and everyone jumps back in surprise.

 _READY TO ENGAGE IN BATTLE._ The blue apparition proclaims, producing a sword out of thin air. Enjolras surges forward to step ahead of Courfeyrac, who is stumbling to put as much distance from himself and the phantom. "That won't be necessary. Disengage." a cool voice says, and the illusion disappears. The voice belongs to a woman - lanky and dark-skinned, she introduces herself as Atala; their head trainer. "I see you've met our resident hologram, Tomas. He'll be available for sparring once training officially starts." Atala says sternly, shooting Courfeyrac a look. Never one for tact, Courfeyrac half-raises his hand to indicate that he wants to say something.

"You'll have to excuse my straightforwardness, but - what the actual _fuck_?" he repeats, and Enjolras isn't quite sure what he's referring to now - the sparring, or the 'hologram', or this woman, or the whole thing in general - but Atala takes this in stride. She tells them about the different stations available to their disposal; warns them that no combat is allowed with other tributes during the training - "You'll have plenty of time for that in the Arena." she says sourly. - and advises them that survival skills are just as important as fighting skills. "Don't ignore your survival skills," she tells them. "Exposure can kill as easily as a knife."

The moment after she says that, a pregnant pause hangs over the group, and Enjolras knows why. _Kill._ If they had no idea what they were going to do in the competition beforehand, they knew now - if they thought that they were ready for it earlier, they just then realized that they weren't. Atala, despite her dark eyes and pursed lips, softens enough to let them process the prospect of it all. Enjolras had been so ready to die in the revolution. _What makes this any different?_ a small voice whispers in the back of his head.

 _Because it's not on my own terms._

Atala eventually sends them off with a quick blow of her whistle, and the tributes break apart from their groups. Enjolras isn't sure why, but he finds himself at the edible plants section - it's simply a large device similar to a television displaying different species of plants. He learns quickly that when he touches an edible plant, it lights up as yellow; those that are not glare red. It's some sort of memory game. Enjolras goes at it to pass time, trying to see how many edible plants he can identify in a row. He's on a streak - twenty plants - when someone taps his shoulder.

"Could I try?" Joly asks, hesitant. He still has jitters, but he's keeping them more in check. Enjolras nods and lets Joly take over the device. He's not sure if it's Joly's medical background, but the boy's able to identify all the edible plants in one go - it makes Enjolras shake his head. "God damn, Joly. Always overshadowing me." Enjolras jokes. Joly looks up at him anxiously, only to relax when he sees that Enjolras is kidding. "Sorry, Enjolras. I just haven't heard you joke... in a while, I guess." Joly says with a chuckle as he goes back to the device. For at least ten minutes, Joly rambles about the different plants on screen - Enjolras tries to commit them to memory, since it might help him in the arena, but it eventually becomes too boring for him so he lets Joly be.

A lot of the stations are already occupied. The Patron-Minette have stuck together, training at the gauntlets. It's a daunting obstacle course with ascending platforms that rise up to a landing - trainers also swing padded clubs at the tribute. The objective, Enjolras figures, is to do the thing in the fastest time possible. Babet, a scrawny little thing, misses a step and falls off the gauntlets, splitting his lip - this sends the other three men in to fits of laughter.

Grantaire seems to be enjoying his time at the camouflage section; with several paints at his convenience, Grantaire animatedly teaches Jehan and Azelma which color palettes will best resemble the ground. The rest of the boys are scattered in different weapon stations - Bossuet struggling with slingshots, Combeferre practicing archery, Courfeyrac dueling with 'Tomas' from earlier, and Bahorel sort of just dabbling in everything - with Marius as the only exception. Enjolras notes that he's alone at the fire-starting station, which is sort of exactly where he'd expect someone as soft as Marius to be; Enjolras figures he has nowhere better to head so he makes his way to the Pontmercy boy, trying to rack his brain why he'd disliked him so much.

"Oh, hey, Enjolras!" Marius greets him when he's near, awkwardly waving his box of matches at him. "I've been trying to light a fire with these and a couple of rocks, but I'm not really getting anywhere." _Ah, that's why I didn't like him. He's a fucking idiot._

"You'll be needing some dried grass, Marius." Enjolras advises and tries to hide the exasperation in his tone. He can't really afford to make them hate him any more than they already probably do. "The rocks don't actually catch on fire. They're just there to light the spark." This information seems to process in Marius' head for a second, until he laughs nervously and reaches out for the mound of grass nearby. "I knew that." he mumbles, obviously abashed, and Enjolras feels sorry for him - just for a flash of a moment - because he's as helpless as a kitten with its head stuck in a box, and how is he going to get out of the arena alive, at that rate?

"How's your girl?" Enjolras asks for the sake of asking, and Marius tenses. "Safe." he says indecisively. "You know - which is more than any of us can ask for." Marius' statement is far from accusing, but it strikes Enjolras dumb nonetheless. Marius looks as if he's going to say something more - as if he's going to ask Enjolras for something - only to recoil as the rocks he'd been striking causes a flare. Enjolras takes Marius' excitement as an exit route; Enjolras isn't in the business of making promises he can't keep.

He jumps from station to station, letting each boy teach him what they'd learned until he's tired of dueling with Bahorel and he needs to take a break. It's only then that he spots Éponine, Madame Houcheloup, Matelote and Gibelote at the knot-tying section. Enjolras debates for a moment if it's safe to approach them, eventually giving in; he hasn't even said 'hi' when Gibelote stands abruptly and stalks over to the hammock making section.

"You'll have to forgive her, dear." Madame Houcheloup says tenderly. Madame Houcheloup had always admitted to having a soft spot for the Les Amis - she had acted as their honorary mother all throughout the time they'd taken over her Musain. Enjolras remembered the day of the revolution, how he'd kissed the back of her hand - how Joly had left a peck on her cheek and how Grantaire had swept of her feet. "She hasn't quite forgiven the - ah - _circumstances_ we're in."

It was the first time anyone openly admitted to feeling resentment towards Enjolras, and it's sort of liberating - it doesn't sting as much. He nods and kneels to their level, trying to make sense of what they're doing. He's a little surprised to find that Éponine is the one instructing them. "If you don't have milkweed, dogbane or cattail is a good alternative," she rasps. "Anything that's stringy tree bark or plant fibers should work. You'll have to carve a hook and a mouth; usually with two sticks - here's a knife, Madame - Matelote -" Éponine doesn't offer a carving knife to Enjolras, and he takes no offense. He watches as Madame Houcheloup wheedles away at a twig and Matelote test the durability of her cord. Éponine is far quicker, though, assembling her trap and setting it up in a nearby 'tree'.

"You're quite good at that." Enjolras comments, but Éponine doesn't respond. She busies herself tugging at her cord to test its durability. He's racking his brain, trying to figure out how he could've offended her so much, but nothing comes to mind. He's tempted to bring it up - that is, until a loud bang resounds around the center, and everyone turns to see Montparnasse narrowly miss hitting Bahorel in the head with a club. "I told you already - I didn't take your damn knife!" Bahorel roars, throwing a punch that swings dangerously near Montparnasse's jaw. Atala is already blowing her whistle, and Éponine makes her way to the two to break it up. Enjolras hears a quiet giggle and looks up to find Gavroche hanging over him, clinging to the ropes course overhead - a flash of silver glistens in the boy's belt and Enjolras watches incredulously as Gavroche nimbly crawls past the arguing tributes with Montparnasse's knife.

No one else pays attention to him except for Éponine, whose head jerks upward when her brother is directly above her. She's sitting right next to a ranting Montparnasse, but her gaze flicks over to Enjolras - the only other person who knows - and the ghost of a smile seems to play on her lips before she turns back to her friend and tells him to suck it up.

 **/**

Lunch comes, bringing forth an image of high school cliques much like Enjolras remembered them. The staff of the Musain stick together; the Thénardiers dine with the same table as the Patron-Minette, although they interact mostly among themselves. Montparnasse spares no expense while glaring at Bahorel, who is seated with Feuilly and Jehan. The Les Amis are all together, but grouped among themselves nonetheless - Combeferre and Courfeyrac have their heads bowed as they speak to each other; Joly and Bossuet compete in one corner on who can finish their food the fastest; Marius, Jehan and Grantaire are clumped together, distastefully judging everyone else. Enjolras chooses to sit with Grantaire, earning him a few taunts from his friend. ("Alas, have I wandered in to the Richest of France club? Or is this the Permanently Disowned Association?")

The food is bland, but Enjolras wolfs it down anyway. The meals they fed him at his 'apartment' was far better - the tributes, seemingly, had been assigned apartments in one section of the Training Center. The apartments were merely small flats, compensated in size by the stellar service; each of them were given warm accommodations and the best meals. Tributes could choose to live with another tribute - like how the Thénardiers all stayed in one room - but Enjolras had turned out all the invites the Les Amis extended to him. He didn't mind being alone. The pampering reminded him much like how one fattened a pig before killing it - which, of course, he didn't bring up to anyone, in light of the others being comfortable in the service.

Enjolras is jolted by Grantaire's elbow in his rib. "What?" the former hisses. "Are you going to eat your peas?" Grantaire asks, bored, and Enjolras pushes his plate towards him. This garners him a toothy grin as Grantaire takes the vegetables. "Eat while you can, Apollo." Grantaire taunts. He looks up briefly at Enjolras, and Enjolras catches the slightest of twitches in Grantaire's eye - withdrawal from alcohol, perhaps. "Who knows if we'll find something safe in that shithole." Grantaire sighs before taking a bite. "Knowing Javert, everything in there is designed to kill us."


	4. donne-leur un spectacle

"You know, I never did ask your name."

Enjolras' designer looks up at him from jotting down Enjolras' measurements, a look of pleasant surprise flickering across her face. _God, am I so rude that people are actually_ shocked _when I'm nice?_ Enjolras wonders to himself. To be fair, most of their fitting sessions were spent in silence. She had assured Enjolras that that day's was the last - for the 'interview', she'd said. In two days, it would be the fifth of June.

The tributes had trained in the stations for three days, and were now being fitted accordingly for an interview with Caesar on the fourth. Caesar had visited the tributes and assured them that he was skilled in the art of interviews - Enjolras remembered him vaguely from American news stations, and the man did have the tendency to turn any weak response in to a memorable one.

"Perpetue." the designer - _Perpetue_ \- answers, and Enjolras nods to recognize it. "The coat you made me for introductions - it was lovely, Perpetue. Thank you." Enjolras says, and Perpetue gives him a kind smile. "All in a day's work." she chuckles. "You know, the girls in the mainland, they fall all over you - the rest aren't too big of a fan, though." Perpetue pauses, as though gauging if she should say more; eventually deciding that she can. "We went to the same university. Before you... you know."

Enjolras cracks the smallest of smiles at this. "Yes, I know." he says quietly, amusedly. Perpetue takes this as a sign that it's alright to keep talking. "You were always so attentive in the few Law courses I shared with you. I merely thought that it was intelligence - a top-notch brain at work - but then you stopped showing up in class, and the next thing I know, you're building a barricade off the rue Mondetour the day of General Lamaraque's funeral." The memory of how it all came crashing down is far too vivid for Enjolras - the National Guards outnumbering them before they could even erect their defenses; how they slammed the butt of their carbine in the back of Enjolras' head, knocking him unconscious and leaving him unaware of who was safe or not (by the looks of the roster of tributes, five of his men - and Mabeuf; the churchwarden, Marius' best friend - were able to make a run for it).

Perpetue seems to notice Enjolras' stoic silence because she promptly apologizes in earnest, ducking her head to write her numbers. Enjolras doesn't feel the need to say anything else until their time together is up. "Will it be red?" Perpetue smiles slightly at his question. "If you wish, _monsieur._ " she assures, making a note of it. "The blood of angry men." she jokes to have written, and Enjolras grants himself a grin.

"A world about to dawn." he echoes.

 **/**

Enjolras waltzes back stage on the evening of the interview in a crimson waistcoat, the buttons flashes of bronze - the white long sleeve polo underneath it is unbuttoned at the neck with a black cravat swung loosely around his neck. It is an unusual and roguish sight, but Enjolras knows what Perpetue's design nods to - the romanticized image of Enjolras a chief and a leader, a rebel and revolutionary.

The guards usher him in to line. Without much surprise, he's the last one set to be interviewed by Caesar. Madame Hucheloup* is in the front, followed by the two Musain girls; the Patron-Minette; the Thénardiers; then the Les Amis boys. Of the Les Amis, Marius is to go first - directly in front of Enjolras is Combeferre. "Seems they've ranked us based on how dangerous we are." Combeferre says under his breath. Caesar has just been announced as the master of the ceremony, and is already beginning his spiel to greet the audience. "That can't be." Enjolras answers quietly, only responding when Combeferre gives him an inquisitive look. "If we were ranked as such, you wouldn't be at the end of the line with me."

From in front of Combeferre, Courfeyrac lets out a snort, and Combeferre shoves Enjolras in the shoulder in turn. They snicker among themselves just as Madame Hucheloup is introduced on stage. Her designer had put her in a clean, simple frock, and had brushed back her hair - without her apron and her hat, Madame Hucheloup looks years younger. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac watch her from the television the organizers have propped up backstage.

"So, Madame, I've heard that you used to own a café!" Caesar prods smilingly. "What would you serve in your little corner of France?" This gets Madame Hucheloup animated, as talking about the Musain always had. She exchanges a little badinage about her cakes and coffee in comparison to that of America's; Caesar eventually shifts tides. "Now that you're going in to the arena, who's going to look over the café?" Caesar questions. "A family, perhaps?"

"Oh, no - my husband died a while back." Madame Hucheloup says, a tinge of sadness in her smile. Sympathy ripples through the audience, and Caesar looks genuinely compassionate when he apologizes. "It's quite alright, dear. It happens." Madame Hucheloup assures him, and it's true. Enjolras had come to recognize that in the slums of France, in the very underbelly of poverty, people could go missing - or people could die - and it wouldn't be a big deal. Perhaps that was the reason why the people of France didn't protest against Javert's game; the tributes would merely be another casualty of the lower class, another name no one would remember.

"Any children?" Caesar wonders aloud, and Enjolras knows the answer - _none_ \- but Madame Hucheloup glances off stage, over the heads of the Patron-Minette and the Thénardiers, smiling at the Les Amis so fondly before she turns to Caesar that something inside of Enjolras physically aches. "I have my boys." she answers, and Feuilly, from somewhere in the middle of the line, lets out a quiet sob.

Caesar wishes Madame Hucheloup good luck, and the next interviews go by in a blur. Caesar proves to be an extraordinary host, pulling out the personalities of the tributes. Matelote and Gibelote tell anecdotes of their days as baristas, Gueulemer shows off the muscles he'd gained during training, Babet talks about his family that he 'lost as one loses a handkerchief', Claquesous goes through the interview with an air of mystery, Montparnasse enthralls Caesar with stories of life in the underclass, and Azelma rebukes every story Montparnasse told with her own account of the horrors of living on the street.

"'Atta girl." Enjolras hears someone say, and he glances to the source - it's Éponine, her arms crossed over her chest. She's smirking at the television, and Enjolras catches what she's looking at: the look on Montparnasse's face. He's scowling, obviously displeased that Azelma had taken a very different perspective on what he'd just told the audience. It's then that Enjolras realizes why the Patron-Minette are not as dangerous as the Thénardiers - the Thénardiers have nothing to fear and nothing to lose but each other.

When Caesar calls out Gavroche and the small boy bounds on stage, there's a palatable shift in the audience. Gavroche is young, after all - only around twelve. The crowd already knew him from introductions, but they hadn't prepare for his character; Gavroche is every bit of a child as one could expect, cheery and spitfire. His feet barely reach the floor as he talks to Caesar, and it's an image that sticks in Enjolras' head. Gavroche didn't belong in this competition.

Gavroche tells Caesar about living in the hollow cavity of the Elephant of Bastille, and the 'adventures' he can go on. When Caesar asks him about his chances, Gavroche declares that his strategy is speed: "If they can't catch me, they can't kill me. Don't count me out!" The audience eat him up, all the way to when Caesar asks him what he feels about competing against his sisters. Gavroche starts to honest-to-God _weep_ a little - wiping the tears off with the back of his fist, like a child - and Enjolras feels the disappointment radiating off the crowd. They don't want this little boy to die, either.

He glances again at Éponine to see how she's reacting, and her face is unreadable, except for that faint smirk. Enjolras doesn't understand her humor until she's called on stage and she swoops Gavroche in to a hug before he walks off. This elicits _aaawww_ s from the audience but from backstage, Enjolras sees Gavroche's face - tears gone, lips curled up in a snigger as he's shielded from the cameras - and of the Les Amis, Grantaire is the one who chortles at the sight. "Those three are a force to be reckoned with." he comments laughingly.

Despite trying to catch her reactions in the past hour, Enjolras is only able to fully appreciate Éponine's appearance once she's on stage. Her designer had put her in a deep blue, off the shoulder dress with lace at the bodice; her make-up, as a close-up shows, is all ashy and earth-toned. For a fleeting second, Enjolras thinks that she looks like she is going to her own funeral.

"Might I just say, you look absolutely _ravishing,_ my dear." Caesar tells Éponine. "I could say the same about you, Caesar." Éponine shoots back, a pleasant smile gracing her lips. Enjolras has to admit that he's a little entranced - with a little make-over, Éponine had managed to look like a mademoiselle _._ "Are you enjoying France?"

Caesar laughs. "Very much, yes! But aren't I the one supposed to be interviewing you?" he reminds Éponine. The audience laughs along with her. Enjolras had never paid much attention to her before, but he recognizes charm when he sees it. Éponine is quick to establish a rapport with Caesar, the two of them acting as if they were merely friends that were merely catching up. "With looks like yours, I'm certain you've got a boy waiting on you. Do you?" Caesar kids after Éponine's humorous story of her pre-interview preparations, and something glints in Éponine's eyes as she denies it. Caesar presses, though, and Éponine heaves a defeated sigh. "Well, there _is_ someone." The audience makes some noise at this, egging her on. "I've always admired him - don't look at me like that, Caesar! - but just from afar."

"Let me tell you what you can do, Éponine," Caesar throws an arm around Éponine's shoulders, pulling her close as though he's going to share a secret with her. "You go and win this thing, and go back home, and that boy will _have_ to go out with you. Isn't that right, folks?" The crowd cheers, but Éponine makes a big show of plastering a fake smile on her face. "I'm afraid that isn't possible, Caesar." she says sadly. "Because he came here with me."

Enjolras isn't certain if her role of lovesick fool is a _role_ or her actual sentiments. It was common knowledge among the Les Amis that Éponine was the girl who constantly tailed Marius. Everyone knew of her devotion to the boy except, it seemed, Marius himself. Enjolras remembered the collective disappointment of the others when Marius had asked Éponine to help him search for Cosette. Nonetheless, it felt odd for her to pull the card out of nowhere, especially since she was familiar with Marius' budding relationship with Cosette.

"That's bad luck." Caesar says quietly, reaching out to clasp her hand. "And, oh, you're here with your siblings - Gavroche and Azelma. You're the eldest, aren't you?" Éponine nods mutely. "What have you got to say about that, Éponine?" Caesar questions her, and Éponine lets a moment of silence pass. Enjolras knows what the pause is for - he feels it in his bones. It's a heartbeat of sympathy, an opportunity for people to look at her and think that she has a lot to lose - her siblings, the one she loves.

"I really don't think there's anything to say, Caesar." she answers, sad in her own right. "All I can do is try." Another pause. "And try you will, my dear." Caesar says as he pats Éponine's hand. "Try you will. Ladies and gentlemen, once again - Éponine Thénardier!" The applause leads her out, and Combeferre lets out a small grunt of approval. "The girl knows how to play the game." Combeferre explains when he spots Enjolras' questioning gaze. "She tugged at all the right strings. Let's hope that we can do the same."

Marius tells the audience about Cosette and speaks in to the camera a promise of coming home to her. Jehan shares one of his poems and offers a girl in the front row the flower in his breast pocket. Bossuet trips on himself on the way to Caesar and makes the audience laugh about stories on how unlucky he can get. Bahorel shares the bar jokes he's heard over the years. Feuilly teaches Caesar how to make a fan out of scrap paper. Grantaire taunts his way through his minutes, bantering with Caesar about the whole idea of the competition. Joly sort of stumbles through his interview, too anxious to try and be charming, but Courfeyrac makes up for it, coming up next and tugging at his bow tie to the point that the females in the audience are squealing.

When Combeferre ascends, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Enjolras is left alone back stage. It's a suffocating feeling, standing there with no one else but himself - he straightens his waistcoat and pats it down, only then feeling something in pocket of the vest. He pulls it out and is surprised at what he sees. It's a cockade pin - blue, red, and white - eerily similar to the one he'd worn on the day of the revolution. Enjolras even thinks that it may be the exact same. _Thank you, Perpetue,_ he thinks as he pins it over his breast.

Combeferre promises to give Caesar a show, and Enjolras straightens himself to his full height. "Now, we have for you the last of the tributes." Caesar begins. Enjolras' eyes flutter to a close for a moment - he'd spoken in front of crowds before. This was child's play. "Aaron Enjolras!"

The audience's reactions are mixed - Enjolras hears their applause, but he catches the booing as well. He was, after all, the head of the revolution. Caesar offers Enjolras the same smile as he offers everyone else. "It's a pleasure to have you here, Enjolras!" Caesar chirps. _Under these circumstances? I don't think so._ Enjolras wants to say, but he bites his tongue when he catches Combeferre's eye. Combeferre shakes his head ever so slightly and Enjolras knows what he's saying; Enjolras has to pull the right strings. He's already treading on thin ice. "It's a pleasure to be here, Caesar." Enjolras returns, plastering on the cheekiest grin he can manage. The Les Amis used to kid about how his smiles were so rare - _little burst of sunshine on a rainy day,_ Jehan would sing-song - and Enjolras finds himself being reminded of why he was never very smiley in the first place. (It makes his jaw tick, whenever he forces it.)

"So, Enjolras, since you've pretty much witnessed all the interviews of the tributes before you, tell us: who are you most afraid of?" Caesar asks. "Right in the deep end, aren't we, Caesar?" Enjolras snipes, eliciting a few laughs from the audience. The safe answer would be that he was afraid of no one, and it would be the closest to the truth - Enjolras is surprised that, for a moment, he considers answering he's wary of Éponine. "I think I'll have to say Feuilly," Enjolras answers slowly. "He might craft a ginormous fan out of leaves to just blow me away."

It's a joke that's not even remotely funny, but Caesar laughs - and the audience titters - anyway. "What have you got to say about that, Feuilly?" Caesar calls out. "Yeah, I just got a call from the _éboueurs_ **," Feuilly shouts back. "They want their joke back!" His quip is even less witty but it still tickles everyone else in to chuckling. Enjolras figures that it's their bond that's amusing; that they could openly toss at one another despite tomorrow's impending competition.

Caesar and Enjolras small talk for a little more. "Now, I don't want to be the one to bring this up, but you're quite attractive - isn't he? Isn't he?" Caesar announces. The females of the audience let out screeches of approval. Enjolras flushes, uncomfortable, and scowls inwardly when he spots Grantaire laughing to himself. "Before you can even ask - no, Caesar, I do _not_ have anyone I'm involved with." Enjolras warns sternly. This seems to add fuel to fire, though, because the girls in the audience have nothing to be disappointed over - there's a few hoots and shrieks as Caesar raises his palms in a gesture of defeat. "No one? At all?" Caesar wonders out loud, and Enjolras can't help himself.

"Patria. The motherland." he blurts out. The audience is laughing - and so is Caesar - but the Les Amis are giving Enjolras looks. Combeferre is shaking his head a little more roughly, Grantaire has stopped laughing, and Courfeyrac is making a gesture of slashing his neck, telling Enjolras to shut up. _Democracy. Equality. Fairness for all of us France's men and women._ Enjolras is temped to add, but his eyes run over Éponine and her eyes - dark and angry - bear in to him, her eyebrows cocked upwards as though challenging him and his moral compass. "And a hard thing it is, to compete against that!" he hears Caesar chuckle. Enjolras had lost focus - had lost his chance - and since the moment's passed, he opts to grin instead as though it _were_ a joke.

Caesar thanks him for the interview, raising his arm over his head as he reintroduces him, and Enjolras stalks to place himself in between Combeferre and Grantaire. "Wotcher, Apollo," Grantaire mumbles. "You might trip over your wounded self-control." Enjolras is so overwhelmed that he survived the interview without making it any worse than it could possibly go for him that he ignores Grantaire's taunt. In fact, he reaches out to grasp Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire starts a bit before smiling his lopsided grin and going to grip Courfeyrac's hand, too.

It's such a small thing, but it begins there - Enjolras holds on to Combeferre and Combeferre reaches for Bossuet; Joly is the one who goes hand-in-hand with Gavroche, and Éponine clasps hands with Montparnasse. Gueulemer is a bit hesitant but he eventually gives in and connects with Gibelote, leaving all of the tributes - all twenty of them - a human chain. The audience picks up on this as Caesar is saying his goodbyes, and the crowd begins to stir.

Enjolras doesn't know why until he spots Caesar motioning for the cameras to cut feed; until the lights go off, plunging the tributes in to darkness; until Grantaire is mumbling a string of curses as the event hosts wrench them apart. Their togetherness, from the outside, could be interpreted as a stand - as a bond - as an impossibility for Javert's plan to ensure they would all go down in a slaughterhouse.

Even without meaning to, Enjolras manages to spark defiance.

* * *

* A note: I've been spelling Madame Hucheloup as H _o_ ucheloup the past two chapters - terribly sorry!  
** _Éboueurs_ \- Garbage men.


	5. l'arène

In his last moments, Enjolras finds that Perpetue is the one with him.

The porcelain-washed walls of the bare room they're in offers not a single semblance of comfort. As Enjolras loosens the collar around the outfit assigned to him - it's a standard outfit assigned to all tributes, Perpetue explains - he finds that it's not his clothes but the small space that's suffocating. There's nothing to look at but a solitary cylinder that shoots up to what is, Enjolras can assume, the arena.

"Find water." Perpetue advises as she ushers Enjolras nervously in to the contraption. She's eyeing it distastefully, and something occurs to Enjolras only then. "You don't agree with this, don't you?" he asks, and the way her eyes widen answers his question in the way her silence would never. "You're all still so young." she says instead. Her voice is low, quivering; Enjolras wonders how she is capable of so much emotion. He had never been particularly nice to her, and the thought of how empathetic she is getting over his departure has him adding another thing to be guilty of. (An ever-growing list, he thinks bitterly.) "And that boy, Gavroche..."

"I'll keep him safe." Enjolras answers on impulse. The smallest of smiles tug at Perpetue's sad face, but there is still a great deal of skepticism in her eyes. "Find water." Perpetue repeats. "Clean, fresh water. And do not eat anything you are not familiar with. What a shame it would be, to die because of a couple of berries instead of at the hands of a worthy comrade."

This makes Enjolras laughs. He's pleasantly surprised that he's able to find humor in such a dire situation, and that Perpetue is capable of cracking a joke worthy of a chuckle. Their happiness is short-lived; a low sound hums through the room, and whatever hint of hilarity was in Perpetue is promptly drained. "Quick. In to the tube." she says urgently, and Enjolras lets himself get ushered in to the cylinder. The glass doors of the chamber snap shut, and as the floor beneath him starts to hurtle upward, Enjolras commits to his memory the last thing he sees of the world that had failed him - Perpetue, white-faced but determined. The face of rebellion.

 **/**

The metal plate pushes Enjolras out of the cylinder, and he finds himself squinting. The sun is shining directly in his eyes - he's able to identify a distinctly sulfur-like scent before the sound of Javert's voice jolts him to reality. "Messieurs and mesdames, welcome to the Hunger Games!"

Enjolras' eyes adjust, and he finds himself part of a loose ring. In the center of it all is what he'd been told was called the Cornucopia; a giant golden horn shaped liked a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of it spanning at least twenty feet high. Its mouth spills with things that can be used in the arena, everything from weaponry to food to protection. There are other materials strewn within their circle, decreasing in value the farther away it is from the center of the Cornucopia.

They have sixty seconds.

Atala had warned them not to step off of their plate until they're given the signal. If they were to not heed her instructions, the land mines - activated until the show formally begins - would blow them to smithereens. They would die even before the games had started.

Enjolras takes the sixty seconds to look around him. To his right is Joly, who is shaking so bad that Enjolras is afraid he will fall off of his plate. Joly's eyes dart wildly around his surroundings, and the unfamiliarity of it all is sure to be the cause of Joly's nerves - he was probably already thinking of all the possible strains of bacteria that such an alien place would bring him. Enjolras tries to survey the arena to the best that he can.

Beneath their plates is what was probably once smooth grey concrete, now dotted with pioneering weeds. The ground bellows with dust and spiderweb-like cracks span across the expanse. All around them seems to be the remains of a city that once was - crumbling buildings and empty roads, abandoned homes and quiet streets. What strikes Enjolras is the faint smell of trees, and, even more indistinct, the scent of the ocean. He twists slightly on his plate and finds that, quite a distance behind him, is what seems to be a scatter of woods. Coastal woods, Enjolras believes - where else would the salty aroma come from?

A loud sound like a gunshot resonates throughout the arena, and for a moment, Enjolras' mind blanks.

The few seconds it takes for him to decide where to run - to the Cornucopia for supplies, to the city for shelter, to the woods for resources - is all it takes for Joly to scuttle away in to the disintegrating town, and Gavroche - who Enjolras hadn't noticed was at his left - to bolt straight in to the heart of the Cornucopia.

As Enjolras' feet pound against the concrete and lead him to the Cornucopia, he catches glimpses, flashes. Grantaire's curls running past the bounty and straight in to the city; Bossuet's arm shooting out to grab a tent pack just as Gueulemer reaches for it. Enjolras flinches as he watches Bossuet get effortlessly thrown back by the buff Gueulemer. He knows he ought to do something, but his feet are bolting in the opposite direction, his sights are set on a carbine propped against a bright red backpack. During the revolution, the carbine had been his choice of weapon; such a light automatic rifle would do the job, quick and quiet; and its presence seemed like a sign. Something Enjolras couldn't deny.

A trap.

Before he can take hold of the weapon, someone jerks him backward and spins him around. He feels a sharp sting across his face and he stumbles slightly to find Gibelote glaring up at him, face ugly with fury. "This is all your fault!" she screeches amidst all the chaos. She's clutching the front of Enjolras' shirt in one hand, and in the other, she holds a knife. It takes a horrifying moment for Enjolras to register that she had slashed at his face. "Gibelote," is all Enjolras manages to choke out before Gibelote raises the knife to his chest - only to be tackled off of him.

"Get out!" Éponine roars. She has Gibelote pinned underneath her; the barista is screaming bloody murder, but is unable to push off Éponine for all her scrawniness. There's a wild look in the Thénardiers' eyes; she is impossibly even more outraged than Gibelote. "Did you not hear me, bourgeois boy? _GET OUT_!"

Enjolras does as he's told without another word, making a mad grab for the carbine and the backpack near it. He doesn't turn back to thank Éponine or see what will happen to Gibelote; he makes a mad dash for the part of the city with the distant woods, slinging the two straps of his backpack over his shoulders and running for his life. A part of him wants to turn and survey the field - do damage control, as the Les Amis would have called it - but his blood is pounding in his ears, and he's afraid of what might happen if he stops, so he keeps going.

He ducks in and out and through the disintegrating buildings and deserted roads, only allowing himself to slow once he reaches the edge of the woods. From there, he begins to alternate between jogging and walking, daring himself to go as far as he can without pausing. Enjolras feels like he's been going for hours; he's not sure if he's ever run so much in his life; but he is too nerve-wracked to actually do anything besides occasionally look around to see if anyone had followed him and keep up with sprinting. When the sky peeking through the woods starts to take on a pale orange tint, he decides it's the safest he can get - he stops in a clearing and, after making sure no one is around, unpacks what he grabbed at the Cornucopia.

The red backpack contains a pack of saltine crackers, a box of matches, a thin blanket and a slingshot. Enjolras' heart skips a beat when he feels a waterskin at the bottom of the bag, only to find that it's empty. It's of no virtual use until he can find a water source. Perpetue's repetitive advice echoes in his head, and it only starts to make sense when the simplest signs of dehydration start to catch up on him - his cracking lips, his dried throat. He had been on the move for God knows how long.

Leaning against the bark of a nearby tree, Enjolras tries to even out his breathing. He wonders who has survived the day.

Tired, he drowses off for what he thinks is just a few minutes, disturbed only by the sound of a high-pitched whistle. He jolts awake to realize that the woods are eerily quiet, blanketed in the darkness of what can only be night; the sky above him lights up, and faces begin to appear.

A head shot of Madame Hucheloup flashes above, bathed in a bluish, holographic light. Next to her appears Bossuet's smirking face; and then, Gibelote's smug expression. Enjolras is not sure what this means until three chilling words appear under their photographs: _repose en paix_.

Rest in peace.


	6. traître, traître

The faces in the sky fade, but the heaviness in Enjolras' heart stays.

Gibelote, the waitress who had always been so kind to get him another cup of coffee. Madame Hucheloup, the woman who was as good as a mother to the Les Amis as their own. And Bossuet. The oldest of the group; always the unluckiest in the room. Whatever luck he had left must have run out. Enjolras wants to yell - wants to scream away the pent-up emotions building up in his chest - but he knows that it's too dangerous. Too risky. Even more now, with the distant sound of voices speaking over each other and feet stomping towards Enjolras' clearing.

Looking around, the best option Enjolras assesses himself to have is to climb. Finding the nearest tree, he pulls at the lowest branch and wraps himself around the trunk, hitching himself up by finding his footing on a sturdy gnarl. He tries to remember how Gavroche had done it during their training; with his carbine stashed in his backpack, Enjolras figures that leg swing'ing himself from branch to branch is the fastest way to do it. He's fairly high up - shielded by leaves but still able to see the ground - when the loud group find their way in to the clearing.

"You had one job!" a voice chides, shot back with " _You_ try to snag food while someone's shooting you." The first voice exclaims "I have!", which only garners a disgruntled huff. Enjolras leans over slightly - not daring to breathe - to find what looks to be the Thénardiers. Azelma is giving Éponine a look of utter disdain which Éponine doesn't seem bothered enough to reciprocate. Gavroche seems to be whistling to himself, taking small quick steps around the clearing. When the boy's eyes move upwards, Enjolras presses himself against his tree, trying to disappear among the leaves. "All clear." Gavroche muses. Enjolras lets out a breath.

"Here for the night, then." Éponine decides. "We should keep moving." Azelma insists, putting a scowl on her older sister's face. "We're as good as dead if we try to go out in that dark. If you want to do that, be my guest." Éponine says with an air of finality. She's already setting out her sleeping bag - something Enjolras would kill to have, with the rough bark of the tree pressing in to his back - and Gavroche is slipping in to it, snickering at the look on Azelma's face. It never occurred to Enjolras how _thin_ they were; how utterly impoverished that Éponine and Gavroche are able to fit themselves in to the sleeping bag with enough space for Azelma to slide in, too.

She doesn't, though. "I'll keep watch." she mumbles dejectedly. Éponine recognized this with a nod; does not thank her or even smile; and cozies in with Gavroche. The two are snoring within minutes. Azelma, propped up against a tree opposite them, glares at the two. Enjolras is not sure if it's jealousy, or resentment, or both; she is able to 'keep watch' for at least half an hour before she, too, succumbs to sleep. Enjolras is afraid to doze off - he is, after all, on a tree branch. If he were to roll even the slightest bit in his sleep, he'd fall to his death; and if he weren't dead then, then the Thénardiers would finish him off.

Sacrificing his comfort for practicality, Enjolras manages to stretch his blanket around the expanse of the trunk and tie himself to the tree. He figures that the sun will be warm enough to wake him - when he dozes off, he finds that he doesn't need the sun as a wake-up call. Groggily rousing somewhere around dawn, Enjolras peeks at the clearing to find Gavroche and Éponine still asleep. It's the ideal time to escape. He loosens the blanket to shove it in to his backpack, then begins his perilously quiet descent down the tree so as to not wake the sleeping Thénardiers.

He lands on to the ground with a soft thud. Gavroche merely shifts in his sleep, and Enjolras exhales at how easy his take off is going to be. That is, until he hears the rustling behind him. His heart damn near stops - he had been so fixated on keeping an eye on the two in the sleeping bag that he'd forgotten they were a trio.

Deciding against pulling out his weapon, Enjolras turns slowly, facing Azelma Thénardier. She is lighter skinned than her sister but as wild-looking as her brother, with curly auburn hair thrown in to two messy braids and a splash of freckles across her face. She looks young - around fifteen or sixteen, perhaps just a year shy of Éponine - and the way she is staring at Enjolras is unnerving. He wonders where the intentness of her glare is coming from until he notices what she is trying to hide from him; she holds two packs in her hands, in addition to the one on her back.

A quick glance behind him confirms that the packs are Éponine's.

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something, but Azelma is quick to raise a finger to her lips. "Who will they believe if I throw these in your arms and scream?" she hisses, her gaze fluttering to her siblings. "Leave as if this had never happened. It will save us both the trouble."

With a lump in his throat, Enjolras glances down at the two Thénardiers, still deep in their slumber. Éponine had saved his life yesterday, but who was to say she would be as lenient the second time around? This was still, after all, a fight to the death. "At least leave them something to eat." is all Enjolras manages to choke out. The compromise seems to strike Azelma as odd; she gives him a cynical smile, already backing out in to the woods. "We are used to hunger, _monsieur._ " she says spitefully.

Without another word, Azelma disappears in to the shadows. Enjolras spins on his heel and - doing his best to be quiet - opens his pack, leaves his saltine crackers near Éponine and Gavroche's sleeping bag, and walks in the opposite direction as Azelma.

 **/**

The next familiar faces Enjolras runs in to are Feuilly and Joly.

Enjolras is on his way back to the Cornucopia, hoping to find something more useful - maybe even run in to fresh water - but, instead, he's ushered in to an abandoned home by Feuilly, who claims to have seen him from the window. Joly and him set up camp in the quaint little home. Even Enjolras has to admit that it's not a bad place to be. Everything is generally intact, and the shelves are well-stocked; the only cinch is that it's smack-dab in the middle of the city, too obvious and unprotected for Enjolras' taste.

"We boarded up the windows and triple locked the doors." Feuilly tries to assure him. Joly comes in to the living room, a pot of water in his hands. Enjolras guzzles the whole thing down. "Thanks for the matches, Enjolras. Nothing here seems to work - the stoves, the television." Joly says as he rations more water in to the pot. "We had found the ocean first. Kept moving throughout the night." Feuilly adds. "When we were walking back earlier this morning, we found this place."

Enjolras doesn't have much energy to say anything, so he merely nods and the three let silence fall over them. "Are you better, Joly?" he says after a few moments. Joly's head snaps up, and Enjolras tries to see through his shaky smile. There's a front he's keeping up; a secret he's hiding, either from Enjolras or from Feuilly. "Getting there." Joly answers quietly. When Enjolras turns to look at Feuilly, he sees a flicker of an expression on the fan maker's face. It disappears before Enjolras can place it.

He's about to ask what happened when they hear a loud snap, followed by an indignant yell. The boys share a look - Feuilly is the first to get up. He peeks through the blinds of his window, only to draw back abruptly. "Joly, get me your spear. Quick!" Feuilly commands, to which Joly scurries around the room in search of their packs. Enjolras is on his feet - the urgency in Feuilly's tone fueling him - and is by the window within seconds, looking for what his friend has seen. Down the street, a makeshift net clings precariously to the balcony of another home, pulled at least a few feet off the ground.

And trapped inside it is Jehan.


End file.
